


Vesuvian; or, Till Kingdom Come

by Hypermnestra



Category: Pope Alessandro XVIII, Trinity Blood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:01:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24785047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypermnestra/pseuds/Hypermnestra
Summary: His Holiness, Pope Alessandro XVIII, is dead. Assassinated to protect Esther, The Queen of Albion, and sure to be named a holy saint, already called such by the people. But Brother Petros, the Knight of Destruction, reflects on the young man, just beginning to bloom, that he loved; with Alessandro's voice seeming to whisper on the wind, Petros will become someone new.
Relationships: Alessandro XVIII & Brother Petros, Alessandro XVIII/Brother Petros
Kudos: 4





	Vesuvian; or, Till Kingdom Come

Petros' eyes had never felt so deceived before now, as he looked down at Alessandro's body. For what they saw was a young man, blooming from his boyhood, his form in repose as if he rested upon the ornately designed and well cushioned open casket. When his eyes moved up, along the glittering sacred symbols of Divine Office, the pristine regalia of the Pope as fitting as ever, they beheld his face; the way that colour seemed still, almost a week later, to decorate his freckled cheeks. There were whispers around the city that the body was incorruptible, a sign of great favor from Heaven. His eyes moved to the youthful Holy Father's hair, each and every lock and curled end in its place; Petros found himself wondering now, as he looked down at Alessandro, if the hairdresser had to do much to cover the crudely cut curl that had once framed His Holiness' left eye, if he had questioned or even noticed its absence. He wondered if that would be something only he'd notice.

_"Petros, you must let me give you some memento; something to remember home."_

That had been Alessandro, after the morning Mass on the day a high-profile assignment for Il Ruinante was going into motion, the Pontifex Maximus leaning against the Knight as Hyacinth would have had he found love in Atlas, not Apollo. Petros said that His Holiness' prayers alone were surely more than enough (he could have sustained himself on listening to them alone), but still, Alessandro took a moment and pulled himself away. The Knight had unraveled his arms and watched as delicate hands reached for a pair of scissors (he couldn't remember now if the glimmer was from the sunlight in the Pope's office hitting the robes or the scissors) and simply cut off a single lock of brown that usually hung around his eyes.

Petros recalled now the blush that had danced across Alessandro's face as he gingerly handed the lock of hair to him, tied with thin white string. He felt a stirring of emotion in his chest, only to be crushed down when a voice called out, saying that it was five minutes until the event would start. The Knight of Destruction nodded sternly, leaving him alone in his vigil when the paladin departed; the weight of that same lock of hair was as a stone over his heart, where it had been sewn into the fabric of the robes over his cuirass.

Five more minutes until Alessandro's body would be taken to its tomb in front of all of Rome, of all the world. Petros blocked out the multitude of voices he heard beyond this room, willing that he was alone with the body of the Holy Father, lowering himself to a kneeling position in front of Alessandro, who's closed eyes no longer followed him.

He allowed himself to reach out, hands free of their gloves, and though he wanted to speak, he stayed silent --- for now, Alessandro could hear his heart from Heaven. Petros' hand made contact with Alessandro's cheek, the skin cold but still as soft as he remembered. He traced the lines of freckles absently, his great back bowed to sorrow, a dry sobbing sound coming uninvited from his mouth as more memories flooded his mind, like the visions of a mystic in contact with a holy relic.

He remembered suddenly, little things: how Alessandro had once smiled and waved directly to him during a dispensation of blessings and the shy, almost reserved way that he himself had returned the greeting. Of the nights he had carried the exhausted world leader to his bed after finding him asleep amongst papers at his desk, of how one night, Alessandro had clung to him and begged him to stay.

"The poets will write of you, Your Holiness. It will be your name on their lips now." This was his last thought before the ceremony was ready and like the rosy-fingered dawn, they breached the doors of Saint Mary Major to make the procession to The Vatican.

To the place of Alessandro's eternal dormition.

At first, when he saw the faces gathered around, it seemed as if he could have been viewing a great collection of statues. Raised upon two dais were the foreign dignitaries not involved in the ceremony personally at this point. The guarding pallbearers of Alessandro's pearl-inlaid casket, which was only brought a short distance before being loaded onto an equally ornate and flower-laden cart pulled by black-plumed horses, counted among them princes of the church and princes of foreign lands alike.

While Petros stood by, these princes fulfilled their roles; from the church they carried out the topless coffin, placed it as gently upon the cart they could. Alessandro lay there now, surrounded by flowers: roses crowded around the coffin like the common people once had the young Pope for blessings and lilies white as snow formed victorious arches above with sprigs of baby's breath intertwined, looking like comet tails running along the highest curves. Petros thought that surely it was Heaven who was victorious today; for here on Earth they were left in mourning.

But those on the dais were other figures which the Knight's visage took in: Queen Esther of Albion, visibly in tears as she sat amongst the few nobles she had brought with her. Not far away was King Ludwig of Germanicus, stern faced but respectfully in black, his entourage standing and drawing their swords as the procession came by. The meaning of this was not lost on the Knight; Germanicus’ relationship with the Church was tenuous, but those of certain blood would always respect their own. It was a personal salute from one monarch to another.

Across the way from the sword's gleaming blades gazed Isabella, Queen of Hispania. Even with her beauty veiled underneath heavy black lace, Petros could see the way her jaw was tightened as they passed, as if she was holding herself back, could see the trembling of her shoulders underneath the ornate decolletage that sat like pauldrons. Near her sat Francis and Mary, the King and Queen of Franc, their fine mourning clothes free of embellishment though their necks and fingers still glistened with onyx and gold; more than half of the soldiers who rode behind Petros and all of the flowers around the coffin had come from them, a personal extension of the House of Valois’ sorrow and dedication to the True Faith.

All of the world had indeed turned out to see His Holiness off.

Petros' heart swelled with a mix of sorrow and strange gratification; he had always told Alessandro that he was the most important man in the world and now, here the world was to offer their final thanks. It would have almost been peaceful, if not for the sorrowful pallor.

He found himself thinking that if he closed his eyes, imagined it was only he and Alessandro here, it could have been like any other walk through Rome at a certain hour, when stillness overtook it. If he thought of the weight in his arms, holding the Papal Tiara that the young Holy Father had been crowned with as he walked at the foot of the lowered cart, he could perhaps imagine it to be a particularly heavy bundle. Some piece purchased from a local artisan, as Alessandro had been wont to do.

And then, passed the dais, came the people. Men bowed their heads and women, garbed in their finest, sobbed and cried as they moved to the ground. Common nuns and priests muttered prayers and all crossed themselves while the papal entourage passed. The noise broke Petros’ brief escape, forced his eyes open again, to acknowledge the weight in his hands for what it was. His gaze swept the crowds, some of whom held up icons of the young Pope, which were painted or produced from official publicity photographs; Alessandro’s beatific eyes stared back at him. For a moment, he was overwhelmed by sorrow, before an inner whip stiffened his spine against the rush of emotions. He fixed his eyes ahead, allowing only to drop towards the coffin.

He did not look out to the crowds again.  



End file.
